


i never asked to play

by sapphfics



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ...technically the title is a lie but not really?, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2020-01-13 02:06:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18459245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphfics/pseuds/sapphfics
Summary: Sansa Stark is not the first girl to volunteer for her sister, and she definitely won’t be the last.Or: in which Sansa Stark is playing a very different game, and watches Daenerys Targaryen catch fire.





	1. one slip and i am dead

"I am tempted to say this is no game we play, daughter, but of course it is. The game of thrones."

_I never asked to play. The game was too dangerous. One slip and I am dead._

— Sansa I, A Feast for Crows

* * *

 

A game is something you can win.

Sansa Stark is not the first girl to volunteer for her sister, and she definitely won’t be the last. She can practically hear the crowd sigh in relief as she steps forward. Arya is beloved amongst all of them, and it is better she go. She’s older, and districts who have highborn children in their cards get more sponsors. She still has a family, she has more to lose.

Besides, their father was King Robert’s favourite. Everyone knew one of the Starks was going to go this year.

“I’m no one,” Arya swears, grabbing her arm in a desperate attempt to try and stop her. “Don’t go, please!”

Arya is stubborn, but the day she was born Sansa swore she would do this for her. They are as different as the sun and moon, but Arya is her sister, the only sister she will ever have.

Besides, Sansa used to dream of seeing King’s Landing.

Sansa doesn’t say anything, just smoothes down her gown and walks away. She will not let them see her be weak. She can be brave.

As she climbs to the stage, Sansa can feel her mentor Margaery Tyrell watching curiously, already trying to figure her out. She feels so numb and dreamy. She does not cry, even as she hears Arya screaming below her. Eventually, when her voice goes hoarse, she glares into a camera.

Theon Greyjoy is called, and proves he still remembers that was once his name. When there are no volunteers, he looks at her and smiles. She hasn’t seen him smile in so long.

When they are told to shake hands, she hugs him instead. Theon is surprised. All cameras turn to them, and away from Arya, away from Bran’s soul searching stare.

She doesn’t let him go until she is pulled away from him because the Gamemakers love a good sob story.

-:-

The goodbyes are harder than she expected them to be.

“Why did you do that?” Arya asks. She is as angry as she is confused. “We both know you’ll-“

“I couldn’t let you go.” Sansa replies. “You deserve a chance. I got you another year, we all knew it was going to be one of us.”

“But...so do you!” Arya protests. “You can’t use weapons, you’ve never been able to. I don’t want you to die for me.”

“I should’ve died a long time ago.” Sansa reminds her. “When…” 

“No.” Arya cuts her off. “Don’t say that. You’re coming back home, do you hear me? You’ve lived through worse than this, remember? We both have. You can survive whatever they throw at you. Who knows, maybe there’ll be a pack of wild dogs in the arena you can befriend with your singing or something and set on the others. I’m not losing you too.”

Despite herself, Sansa laughs. “I love you all, you know that, right?”

“Try,” Bran tells her. “Try your hardest to come home.”

“I will,” Sansa reminds them. “Though I don’t know how to use a weapon.”

Her sister is suddenly resolute. “Stick them with the pointy end.” 

-:-

Margaery Tyrell is as beautiful up close as Sansa imagined, and she had imagined quite a bit. They sit on the train, enjoying a feast.

It’s the least the Capitol can do. Most of them will be dead soon.

They watch a recap of the Reapings in the other districts. It’s nothing to send a raven about, until they get to Twelve.

District Twelve never has strong contenders, but the crowds cheer with delight as Khal Drogo is reaped. He will do well for them. Daenerys Targaryen, however, is a different story. They stand in silence as Khal Drogo and Daenerys lock hands. Sansa thinks she can see a wedding band on Daenerys’ hand.

“I’m surprised they didn’t get her brother,” Margaery comments, putting a grape in her mouth.“Viserys.”

“I’m not,” Theon says. “She’s a Targaryen, isn’t she? King Robert will want to kill them separately. We all know how that family loves each other.”

But Sansa can only form one clear thought: _Daenerys Targaryen is going to kill me._


	2. a true targaryen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys throws a steak knife into the wall, just missing Tyrion’s ear. She’s barely been on this train an hour.

"The frightened child who sheltered in my manse died on the Dothraki sea, and was reborn in blood and fire. This dragon queen who wears her name is a true Targaryen.”

— Tyrion II, A Dance with Dragons

-:-

Daenerys throws a steak knife into the wall, just missing Tyrion’s ear. She’s barely been on this train an hour. It’s stifling her. “And I can use a sword, too. Jorah taught me.” 

“But our beloved King Robert wants you dead.” Tyrion had told her solemnly, as though he were telling her some great secret. “Odds are, you won’t survive the first day.” 

“King Robert sent an assassin to kill me when I was fourteen and pregnant,” Daenerys shoots back. She thinks: _I am going to survive just to see the look on his face._ “I knew I was going this year. That’s why I married him. The people of King’s Landing will adore a love story, won’t they?” 

She looks pointedly at Drogo, who only smiles. Tyrion sighs and pours yet another glass of wine. 

Missandei speaks up. “I think it’s a great idea. Sets you apart, at least. Robert won’t know what hit him.” 

Daenerys remembers Missandei’s games; they were only last year. It shocked even her when the pacifist Missandei kicked her would-be be-header’s legs out from under him and ran him through with his own sword. She wonders if the pacifist act was a trick all along, but she doubts it. Missandei doesn’t look like she could hurt a fly; it’s comforting. 

“Thank you, Missandei.” Daenerys says, honestly. 

“You’re welcome,” Missandei replies. “We’ll be arriving soon. I can do your hair, if you like.” 

If Daenerys has to look at Tyrion’s pitying and somehow smug face anymore she will scream, so she just nods and follows Missandei out the train car. 

-:-

They will arrive at King’s Landing in less than five minutes. Daenerys can’t run anymore, so she doesn’t. She sits at a window seat, practising her winning smile. Missandei has made her look beautiful. Her dress is the colour of the sky. It brings out her purple eyes that made strangers slam their doors in the faces of two hungry children. 

No matter. She will make the crowds of King’s Landing love her, the way District Twelve did. 

She tries to remember the other children who will soon be her enemies, but there isn’t much that is memorable about most of them. The girl from District Seven, Elinor, is the youngest at twelve and will probably die within an hour. The boy from District Ten, Ramsay Bolton, must have come to the Reaping straight from freshly slaughtering a cow, the blood still on his hands. The girl from District Six, Sansa Stark, had made a name for herself by being the only volunteer in her district in almost a decade. Daenerys is sure this wasn’t intentional, given how distraught her poor sister appeared to be. 

(It’s still strange to see families who actually love each other. It’s something she never knew.)

Drogo stands beside her, holding her hand. His presence should be comforting, a little taste of home, but she just feels uncomfortable. Her district token, a silver bell, is tied around her wrist. It’s stupid, and will give her away in the arena. She’ll have to silence it, somehow. 

“We’ll live, won’t we? After everything I’ve lived through, everything we did..it can’t be for nothing.” She asks, uselessly.

“Yes?” Drogo says. “You will live, my wife.” 

She remembers how satisfied she had felt as Viserys lay dead in front of her. She will not relish the killings, but she will do whatever she must to survive. 

-:-

The opening ceremonies make her feel sick. They dress her in black and red, a dragon on the sash, with artificial fire. It is meant as a mockery, but fire does not scare her. Fire cannot kill a dragon. 

The crowds scream in delight as she goes by. She is proud. 

Daenerys does not pay attention to Queen Cersei’s speech. She notices that King Robert almost looks regretful when he glances at Sansa Stark. Her red hair hangs loose, framing her face. She wears grey and far too much fur. She must be boiling. Her token, a necklace with her house sigil, glints brightly in the artificial light. Sansa is smiling with too much teeth. Her district partner, Theon Greyjoy, doesn’t hold a candle to her. 

When Daenerys sees Sansa turn to her, she looks away. 

-:-

It becomes clear to her, as training goes by, that Sansa Stark cannot use a weapon. Or maybe she just doesn’t want to show off and give her game away. 

Ramsay Bolton has taken a particular interest in her. The blood has yet to come off his hands, and Daenerys doesn’t want to know where it’s coming from. So, when Sansa is looking for partners to spar with, Daenerys steps in front of him, trodding on his foot. 

Sansa tries her best, but Daenerys still lets her win. She can’t explain why. 

-:-

The night before the interviews, Daenerys finds her alone in the training centre long after dark. She’s hitting a punching bag, and seems to hit it harder when she sees Daenerys standing in the doorway. Daenerys wonders how she even got in here. 

“Is your plan to die, then?” 

“No,” Sansa stops, puts her hands at her sides. She sounds so tired. “But if I’m going to die, I’d sooner it be whilst there’s something left of me.”

“That’s noble of you,” Daenerys tells her. “Do you want allies?” 

“No offence, but why would you want to ally with me?” Sansa asks. “I don’t know anything about fighting, I never have. I’m here so Arya didn’t have to go.” 

“You make great eye candy?” Daenerys jokes, and she can see that it almost makes Sansa smile. “I wasn’t joking, though, about alliances. I know you need help.”

Sansa glances up at what must be a camera. Daenerys takes the hint, and starts to turn away. 

“Please, wait! I-I know a place we can talk alone.” Sansa says. Daenerys doesn’t ask how she knows, just follows her out a side door. 

-:-

As they reach the roof, Sansa slams the door behind them, and stares out over the edge. King’s Landing at night resembles a sun at supernova; far too bright for anyone’s liking, least of all hers. 

“What did you want to talk about?” Daenerys sits, not caring about dirtying her uniform. “I have a feeling this isn’t just about alliances. What’s on your mind?” 

“Theon’s offered to die for me.” Sansa informs her. “He shouldn’t be here, Daenerys. None of us should be here. Look at you! You’re beautiful, and you’re the last of your name. You should get to live a whole life and have children if you want and not because you don’t know which one will be Reaped so it’s better to have reserves.” 

Daenerys doesn’t ask _‘are you in love with him?’_ because it would hurt her too much to know the answer. “What are you saying, Sansa?” 

“It’s not fair!” Sansa says. “There’s no justice. Not unless we make it.” 

Daenerys hesitates for a second. “Are you talking about rebellion?” 

“I...I shouldn't be telling you any of this.” Sansa says. “There’s no point. It’s just...I needed to get all of that out before I spill my guts on stage. And I feel like I can trust you? Besides, I’m probably going to die anyway, so...” 

“You won’t die,” Daenerys says, and puts her hand over Sansa’s. “Not with me. I can protect you.” 

Why is she making such promises to a girl she barely knows? 

“No one can protect anyone.” Sansa says, sadly. “But I’ll join your alliance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i swear originally this was just going to be from sansa but i thought ‘fuck it’ and wrote this instead. this chapter is way longer sorry lol i’m inconsistent and life is hell right now and i’m not ready for the show to be over....hope you enjoyed anyway? <3


	3. her skirts swirling around her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Any friend of Daenerys is a friend of mine,” He tells her. His muscles are larger than her head. It should be comforting. Should be. 
> 
> Theon probably thinks this is a terrible idea, but he’s already decided to die so she can’t really be bothered taking his opinions on survival into account. He still smiles at them though, she will give him that. 
> 
> Sansa had no idea Daenerys already considers her a friend.

"You are very beautiful, my lady," the seamstress said when she was dressed.

"I am, aren't I?" Sansa giggled, and spun, her skirts swirling around her. 

— Sansa III, A Storm of Swords

-:-

Khal Drogo looks at Sansa the way no other man in her life who is not related to her ever has. By this, she means that he is clearly completely and utterly enamoured with his wife and not her. It’s very refreshing. They look good together, she supposes. She wants to be happy for Daenerys, but something inside of her snaps when she has to look at them together for too long. 

“Any friend of Daenerys is a friend of mine,” He tells her. His muscles are larger than her head. It should be comforting. Should be. 

Theon probably thinks this is a terrible idea, but he’s already decided to die so she can’t really be bothered taking his opinions on survival into account. He still smiles at them though, she will give him that. 

Sansa had no idea Daenerys already considers her a friend. 

The elevator is hardly crowded with only the four of them in it; yet Daenerys and Khal Drogo stand obnoxiously close together, like someone’s chained them up. She isn’t sure why it’s bothering her as much as it is. Maybe she just wants Daenerys to herself; she’s a useful friend and ally and she will probably mercy kill her husband within a week. 

If they even make it that far. 

Sansa has already seen too many district partners who were obviously couples die in the arena. She hopes it will skip them. 

It’s late evening by the time they get back from their last day of training. Margaery Tyrell is, as usual, impeccably dressed in a turquoise silk gown that brings out her eyes. 

Daenerys’s eyes are the colour of the first violet she saw after the longest winter any of them had ever known. It felt like it lasted decades, but that violet gave her hope. Hope she needs now. Hope Daenerys is unwittingly giving her. 

“So,” Margaery asks, as Theon chews loudly on his steak. “How was your day?” 

“I made a new friend!” Sansa says, excitedly. Alliances always end terribly, but she’s talking about it like she made a new friend at school. “Daenerys Targaryen wants us to join her alliance.” 

“You always were the charmer of your family,” Margaery says. Sansa is surprised that Margaery, of all people, is unopposed to her suggestion of an alliance. Margaery herself was in one, before they all turned on her. Sansa remembers watching her pray with the head of a Septa’s daughter still in her lap; the girl’s throat slit wide open. 

(Margaery doesn’t pray anymore, either.)

“Daenerys Targaryen is someone you want to keep around,” Margaery says. “And if it ends with the two of you...well, she’s the one with the target on her back, and she must know that.” 

“Mayhaps,” Sansa replies. She doesn’t allow herself to indulge in a fantasy where she somehow makes it to the final two. Odds are, she will probably be one of the first to die. She just hopes her family won’t have to watch.

(She knows what it’s like, watching someone you love die, when there’s nothing you can do to save them. But you can’t turn away. You have no choice.)

“Your interviews are tomorrow night.” It’s the first time she’s ever heard Sandor Clegane speak to her willingly. “They will prod you with questions, trying to get to your weaknesses. They want to exploit that, in the Arena.” 

“What did they ask you, then?” Theon asks. He’s gotten more reckless now he’s certain he’s going to die. Sansa doesn’t know what Sandor has been telling him, behind closed doors where only tribute and mentor are supposed to hear each other, and she isn’t sure she wants to know. 

Sandor Clegane points to his face emphatically. “You think they had to ask? And they already know both of your weaknesses, don’t they?” 

“They don’t know anything about either of us,” Sansa says. “Nor do you.” 

They eat the rest of their meal in an uncomfortable silence. The red blood from Sansa’s steak drips onto her dress, but she doesn’t care anymore. She isn’t hungry anymore. At least, not for food. 

-:-

If she were home, Sansa would sew her own dresses for the interview. But she isn’t home, and she will likely never see Winterfell again, so for now she’s stuck with her stylist who makes the dresses so tight she has to hold her breath to get into them. 

The dress they put her in makes her look like she’s going to a funeral, black and ankle length. The numerous raven feathers stapled to it don’t help. 

The stylist is clearly pleased with herself, and Sansa smiles at her. “I wonder, how many birds did you use to make this wonderful gown?” 

“Twenty three!” The stylist replies. “I thought it fit the situation quite well. You’re very beautiful, Sansa Stark.” 

Twenty-three birds. One for each person she has to kill to get back home. 

She looks at herself in the mirror and says, “I am, aren’t I? Thank you for your help.” 

“The last tribute I dressed bit me,” The stylist laughs. “I had her teeth filed down the night before she got to the arena. But you are a blessing, little bird.” 

“Thank you,” Sansa says again, because it’s better to use courtesy as an armour. Her stylist leads her out of the dressing room, and her skirt twirls around her. 

She wishes this stupid dress came with wings. 

The lights backstage are far too bright, so much so that she wonders how the assembled crowd gathered to watch the interviews don’t see them standing there. 

She hears Daenerys’s heels clicking on the black stone floors before she sees her.  
She can’t stop herself. “Really? A wedding dress?” 

Daenerys blinks back at her, clearly with a well rehearsed smiled. “It’s better than the one I wore in Twelve.” 

“Clearly. But they think we all dress women in rags for weddings.” Sansa reminds her. She dares not talk like that here, not with cameras watching her every move. She decides to focus on weddings. “Don’t you toast bread together or something in Twelve? And then you’re married? I always thought that was sweet.” 

“Fire’s involved, yes,” Daenerys says. “We married the night before the Reaping. We weren’t the only ones.” 

Sansa remembers how many babies are born in her district after the games, particularly to girls who the reaped boys left behind. “Are you glad he’s here, then? So you don’t...” 

“I won’t die alone,” Daenerys tells her. “I have you, don’t I?” 

“Of course you do,” Sansa tells her. She doesn’t want to watch Daenerys die. She doesn’t want Daenerys to die at all. “I’m in your alliance. I’m with you.” 

“I’m not on for ages,” Daenerys says. “I should take a seat. I only wanted to see you.”  
“Not Theon?” It’s suddenly dawns on Sansa that Daenerys barely seems to acknowledge Theon’s existence. 

“No.” 

“Hey you two,” Theon waves, having come up beside her without her notice. Daenerys makes you focus only on her. “We’re on soon, Sansa.” 

He’s only in a suit. Black, like her gown, but loosely fitting. They clearly don’t really think they have to try much with Theon, who by their standards is probably conventionally handsome. Or maybe they just don’t care to try. His shoes are scuffed already. 

“Are you nervous?” Theon asks. “I am.” 

“My father always said just picture the audience in their underwear,” Sansa tells him. “But I think that would be terrible advice for you.” 

“What can I say?” Theon jokes. “I love a crowd that wants to see me die.”

She supposes she has to love them, as well. 

As she steps out onto the interview stage, the world is bathed in gold. 

-:-

Her dress is even more uncomfortable to sit in, but Sansa sits up straight, her hands clasped in her lap. 

“So,” The interviewer says. “I’m very happy to have you here, Miss Stark. My heart leapt when you volunteered for your sister, as I’m sure was the case with the rest of King’s Landing. So, I and the rest of us here in King’s Landing are all just dying to know, why did you do it?” 

“I love my sister,” Sansa replies. “We might be as different as the sun and moon, but the same blood flows through our hearts. I need her, as she needs me. I just wanted her to live.” 

“How very sweet,” The interviewer says. “Speaking of sweet, isn’t your district partner cute?”

“Theon?” Sansa scrunches her face. “Oh no, sorry, we’re just friends!”

“Friends?” The interviewer says incredulously. “Really?” 

“Yes,” Sansa says, honestly. “I love him like I love my brothers, really.” 

“Oof,” The interviewer remarks. “Sorry, Theon. So, you are single then?”

“Why, are you offering?” Sansa asks, jokingly. She winks at him. She’s not propositioning him, she just knows she’s pretty and how to use it. “But yes, I am. My last boyfriend...well…it didn’t end well.”

She’s not sure how to politely say that her last boyfriend got her father executed, so she doesn’t. 

“I’m sorry,” The interviewer feigns such an emotion as sympathy unconvincingly. “But hey, you and Daenerys Targaryen seem to be getting along swimmingly!”

Sansa smiles at that. “Yes, yes we are. She has a good heart.” 

“And so do you,” The interviewer says. “I think we can all agree that, can’t we?”

The audience cheers in response. Maybe they do love her. 

-:-

Theon’s interview doesn’t go as well as hers, but he spends most of his time playing up sympathy about leaving his sister behind. He also pretends to be hurt by Sansa’s clear dismissal of his non existent romantic affections for her. He tells stories of them as children, playing knights with Robb. It will work, or at least she hopes it will. 

When Daenerys Targaryen steps out on stage, someone in the row in front of Sansa starts screaming until he is forcibly removed from the room. 

“So, Daenerys,” “Your brother...”

Daenerys winces. She doesn’t like to talk about Viserys anymore than the people who knew him liked being around him. “He died. The last thing he ever did was smile at me.” 

“They never did find his head,” The interviewer says. “How tragic, for you.”

“Yes,” Daenerys replies. She’s not looking at the interviewer though, she’s looking at Sansa. Her violet eyes pin Sansa to her seat. “So much lost love.” 

As the interview continues, and Daenerys keeps her eyes on her, Sansa starts to reconsider her idea of Daenerys being the one to kill her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...idk if i like this chapter but it’s here ig i promise the games will start next time


	4. who would light her pyre here?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys and Drogo do not share their last night before the games with one another. Daenerys does not even enter his room, she stays in her chambers and dreams of Viserys covered in molten gold. Daenerys’s prep team finds this strange, since they’ve seldom seen a couple as unromantic as she and Drogo. 
> 
> Sometimes, Daenerys likes to imagine the looks on their blue faces if she told them about eating that stallion's heart, how she had not flinched, how she had not washed her hands of the beast’s blood.

In Westeros the dead of House Targaryen were given to the flames, but who would light her pyre here?

— Daenerys X, A Dance with Dragons

-:-

Daenerys and Drogo do not share their last night before the games with one another. Daenerys does not even enter his room, she stays in her chambers and dreams of Viserys covered in molten gold. Daenerys’s prep team finds this strange, since they’ve seldom seen a couple as unromantic as she and Drogo. 

Sometimes, Daenerys likes to imagine the looks on their blue faces if she told them about eating that stallion's heart, how she had not flinched, how she had not washed her hands of the beast’s blood. This fantasy made the time in which they ripped out all of her body hair whilst Drogo gets to lie in bed, almost bearable. 

“We will be fine,” Drogo reminds her as they are pulled into the hovercraft. The silver bell on Daenerys’s arm chimes a little in the early morning wind. It sounds like the beginning of a song. She doesn’t answer him, just looks over and gives him a reassuring smile. 

She keeps her eyes trained on Sansa Stark as they inject the tracker deep into her forearm, and Sansa smiles weakly back at her. Sansa’s hair is placed around her head like a crown. She looks beautiful. She always does. Theon Greyjoy is sat beside her, staring out the window. He looks as though he hasn’t slept in all the time he’s been here, and without the make-up his prep team applied for his interview, the bags under his eyes are clear. 

The clothes she will be wearing in the arena tell her almost nothing. Black trousers similar to those worn by people who worked in the mines back home, a thin white button-up shirt, and slightly heeled boots. Daenerys can only hope that Drogo’s shoes are heeled too, otherwise this act is grossly sexist, and will give the male tributes an unfair advantage. 

She puts on the boots and tries to run around the glass tube which will send her into the arena in less than an hour. It’s like trying to run in the high heels her mother wore. She tries not to worry. The second she gets her hands on a blade she will cut the heels off, but then where will she be? 

What is she going into? 

The clock is ticking loudly. Daenerys climbs into the tube, and just as the glass door is closing in front of her, her stylist gives her a thumbs up. 

She closes her eyes. 

_I am the blood of the dragon,_ she reminds herself, _and I will not die in this cage._

-:-

Daenerys was right; Elinor from District Seven doesn’t even last ten seconds. 

She jumps off her platform before the countdown ends and kills herself. Some of her brains and blood splatter onto her district partner and then her canon sounds. 

Daenerys looks below her and all she can see is an angry ocean. She’s never seen an ocean before, only seen photographs in textbooks. 

This is not a place for a Targaryen, but it might be perfect for Theon Greyjoy. Somehow, this makes Daenerys resent him a little more. 

She catches Sansa Stark’s eyes again, and Sansa mouths something at her that she can’t see. Sansa points down at the ocean below them and Daenerys nods. 

When the countdown ends, she takes a deep breath and jumps into the thrashing water below her. 

How the Gamemakers expected them to swim in these awful outfits, Daenerys will never know. 

Daenerys comes up for air and Drogo is holding her up and Sansa is holding a male tribute’s head under the water until his cannon sounds and Theon has found a crossbow amongst the Cornucopia. It feels surreal. 

“Thanks for the knife,” Sansa whispers to the boy’s now floating corpse. Daenerys was right about Sansa, too; she was holding herself back in the training centre. 

Daenerys has to get to her. Now. 

“You did not tell me you could swim,” Drogo remarks as they try and swim towards Sansa and Theon. 

 

Theon is at Sansa’s side, ready to hold her up. It’s almost sweet before you remember that they’re killing someone. 

“I-“ Daenerys starts, and then stops herself. If the gamemakers know she isn’t a strong swimmer, they will use that to kill her faster. “You never asked, did you?” 

Daenerys reaches the Cornucopia and picks up the sword. She drags herself up and now that there is ground beneath her feet she can take a better look at her competitors. 

No one who comes near her lives. 

By the end of the bloodbath, she thinks she’s counted at least eleven cannons. Eventually, they stop coming. She lets herself breathe.

They make a camp in the mouth of the Cornucopia. Daenerys suddenly wonders if the reason they were put in white shirts and then dropped in water was so the audience could see some skin. She keeps her clothes on. She will not let King Robert see her like that. 

Drogo wraps one of the blankets around her. She is grateful. 

“You did well,” Sansa tells her, and the knife she grabbed from the dead boy isn’t black anymore, it’s stained red. Daenerys moves to sit beside her. Sansa puts her hands in the ocean water to wash the blood off. “I only got three.” 

“Four. I’m surprised,” Daenerys remarks. “After what I saw in the training centre—“ 

“I will do what I have to in order to survive,” Sansa says, but as though they aren’t quite her words and she just wants to know how it would sound to say them. “My aunt did not survive the games, but I am not her.” 

“Your aunt?” Drogo asks. 

“Her name was Lyanna Stark,” Sansa says. “They don’t like to talk about her. No one ever does. They didn’t know she was pregnant before she entered the arena. I think they must test for it now.” 

“We got two of the careers,” Theon is noticeably silent until now. “The pair from District Two. They didn’t even try this year. It was almost too easy, really.” 

“Why would they try?” Sansa says, and she almost laughs despite everything. “They always win. Not this year, though.” 

She’s giving them good lines, Daenerys thinks. How much of this is for show? 

“What happened to the others, the pair from One?” Drogo asks. 

“Ran off together probably,” Theon says. “I was kind of focused on not dying.” 

“So you’ve decided to live then?” Sansa says. “I thought—“

“Well, I promised to fight for you, Lady Sansa,” Theon says and for a second Daenerys thinks he might bow. “And for Winterfell.” 

Sansa hugs him again. The people of King’s Landing must be eating this up. 

“You are a good man,” Sansa tells him. Again, it sounds rehearsed. “You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.” 

Daenerys forgot to look for Ramsay Bolton. He’s probably run off into the woods, and with his district partner probably stalking him, he’ll be dead soon. 

If the odds are in her favour, anyway. 

Hidden amongst the various weapons, Daenerys finds three dragon eggs that look as hard as stones. Another mockery of her house, she supposes, but she keeps them anyway. If she is not the dragon’s daughter, who is she?

In the distance, Daenerys can hear a girl screaming. She does not run to her. It’s another person she will not have to kill to get home. 

Sansa reaches out to hold her hand as they watch the names of the dead appear in the sky above them, bright and numerous as the stars. Daenerys lets her. She isn’t sure if the cameras can even see them. 

She decides not to care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooo i’m back?? hopefully for longer. i have some sections of the next two chapters written, so this fic will be finished soon....i’m sorry if this is bad. everything sort of went to shit in both my academic and personal life so i haven’t really had time to focus on fanfic as much as i’ve wanted to


	5. be brave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They will love her in King’s Landing. The pretty little bird whose wings were ripped off so she shed her skin to reveal she is a wolf and clawed out their throats with that same charming smile, those same repeated words. Like something out of a song. The audience will eat it up and vomit it back out when she’s dead.

Be brave, she told herself. Be brave, like a lady in a song. 

— Sansa V, A Storm of Swords

-:- 

Whenever Sansa has to kill, she does not think of them as a person. Instead, she pictures that she is killing someone she despises, and soon enough her opponent is dead. Margaery had given her that advice, though she somehow can’t imagine Margaery really hating anyone. But that’s how she won, isn’t it? Tricking everyone? She does not know what Theon thinks of when he strangles that boy to death, his eye hanging out of its socket. Theon had pocketed it as a trophy. He is acting strangely, but she tries not to worry about it. There will be time to mourn the boy he was once she is dead. She will be able to see her father, and her mother, and Robb and Rickon. They will be happy together again. 

But in the meantime, she knows that the cameras are watching her. They will love her in King’s Landing. The pretty little bird whose wings were ripped off so she shed her skin to reveal she is a wolf and clawed out their throats with that same charming smile, those same repeated words. Like something out of a song. The audience will eat it up and vomit it back out when she’s dead. She will be immortalised. And her family will mourn her even if Jon Snow will not for those on the wall aren’t allowed to mourn the families they willingly left behind. 

Lyanna Stark did not die in the arena. She lived long enough in that freezing hovercraft to birth a living son. To hold him as she died. To give him a name. 

Is Jon watching me? Sansa wonders. They must be broadcasting it at the wall, since everyone is required to watch on pain of death. And then she remembers that Jon has always been nothing but indifferent to her and decides she doesn’t care. Let him rot on his stupid wall as a trainee Peacekeeper. 

She can imagine Arya and Bran holding each other, the windows boarded up, needle clutched in Arya’s fist. But Sansa doesn’t name the knife. She will lose it once she leaves the arena, and someone else will use it next year, or it will be sold to some rich Capitol citizens and displayed on their mantelpiece. 

Sometimes, at home, she would have strange dreams, but her dreams in the arena are stranger still. She sees Daenerys in a fur coat and gloves scowling at her, men with horrifying blue eyes, and her brother Bran on a throne made of charred bones. 

She wakes without screaming, just as she did at home. She isn’t that afraid, even though she is alone and the silence hurts her ears. She knows that Theon and Drogo are patrolling; hunting together, perhaps. Theon has made good use of his bow, and there's been a surprising amount of game. He’s also the first to eat the food, to check if it’s been poisoned. 

Daenerys comes up behind her, puts a hand on her shoulder and Sansa freezes. She waits for Daenerys to press a knife into her back, but nothing happens. Nothing. 

“Are you alright, Sansa?” Daenerys asks and Sansa nods because the audience despises a weakling. “I was hoping we might speak alone.” 

“There are only four left,” She whispers to Daenerys. She does not refer to the tributes as people. She supposes it’s meant to comfort her friend. Because Daenerys is her friend, somehow, despite everything. 

“Four left,” Daenerys repeats. “When I was a girl, my brother Viserys would tell me of the thousands of people awaiting his return to King’s Landing. I couldn’t even count to twenty. He didn’t even reach twenty.” 

“I’m sorry,” Sansa says. “You spoke about him in your interview. You must miss him.” 

“Honestly? I don’t miss him,” Daenerys says. “He was cruel and weak. He smiled at me, you know, before he died.” 

Sansa wants to cry but she can’t so she pushes her nails into her palms. “My little brother Rickon did too. He really thought Jon would save him. Then they shot him as he ran to us. And I wasn’t there, I didn’t get to see him, or protect him—”

“It wasn’t your fault.” Daenerys tells her and she must mean it. “Whatever happened, it wasn’t your fault.” 

“I am sorry, too.” Sansa takes her hand to help her up. Then she picks up her knife again and puts it in her sleeve. “Shall we go?”

Daenerys nods and Sansa notices that she hides the dragon eggs in the bottom of her sleeping bag, keeping them warm. 

-:-

She’s been in the arena for three days. There have been no deaths since the bloodbath, and she knows the audience is getting restless. She gets a gift but it isn’t a weapon or food or water or anything useful, it is a hairnet laced with emeralds. 

Sansa wears it anyway, as a thank you to the generous sponsor who would consider decking out a killer like her in precious jewels worth more than her entire district’s salaries combined. 

And that’s when the ice spiders come. 

Drogo dies first. He is too injured from an attack neither of them witnessed, but had stumbled back to their camp clinging to life the way Arya had once clung to her hand. He will not survive much longer. Sansa makes sure to cover the nearest camera with her blade as Daenerys puts a pillow over Drogo’s face. Soon enough, the canon sounds. 

“It was merciful,” Sansa tells her. “I’m so sorry.” 

Daenerys doesn’t say anything, and wraps her arms around Sansa and buries her face in Sansa’s shoulder as she cries just for a moment. 

“I’m tired of this,” Daenerys hisses, suddenly angry. 

Sansa can only nod until Daenerys lets her go. 

Theon tries to kill her seven hours later, and he looks mad in a way she thinks that Daenerys never could. He doesn’t even have the decency to tell her why. But his skills with a bow seem to have died with Robb, though, as he misses twice before Daenerys knocks him out with a blow to the back of the head. Sansa, in a rage, beats him to death with a shield with her family’s sigil on it. 

He never told her what happened on that hunting trip. Why Drogo came back alone. She can speculate when she’s dead, when she sees him rotting with Joffrey. 

The list of the dead that night includes Ramsay’s district partner Myranda. Sansa wonders if her’s was the scream she had heard. Decides she couldn’t care less and washes Theon’s blood off of her hands in dirty river water. Her mother used to swim in waters like this. Her mother was found in waters like this, her throat cut wide as a smile. 

Ramsay comes for them before the broadcast ends. He gets too close for comfort, kisses Sansa’s check and she shudders. She can practically hear the audience gasping. 

More mutations come, dogs as large as houses and as fearsome as a winter storm. 

And then dogs eat Ramsay alive. Sansa only smiles. 

-:-

The hovercraft hasn’t come. 

Daenerys burns Drogo’s corpse before the Capitol can take him from her again. 

Daenerys walks through the flames as calmly as though she were walking down the aisle, and Sansa shuts her eyes so no one will see her cry. She can’t hear Daenerys scream and she snaps her eyes open when someone touches her arm. 

And then the arena is alive with the music of dragons. 

“Ladies and Gentlemen, the victors of this year’s Hunger Games, Sansa Stark and Daenerys Targaryen!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...sorry i haven’t updated in forever and i come back w this lame shit but i’m proud of it soooo sorry <3333

**Author's Note:**

> i’m very disappointed with how daensa is progressing in canon so. welcome to this hell au??? i’m not quite happy with this tbh but i wanted it out there skjdnf maybe i’ll continue it


End file.
